


The Show Must Go On

by dierdele



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Drabble, Hurt and comfort, M/M, and love and joy, from both points of view, this is set right after the CL second leg quarter finals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 13:03:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18522091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dierdele/pseuds/dierdele
Summary: In two different dressing rooms, Kyle and Dele reflect on the result and what it means to them.





	The Show Must Go On

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this: After tonight’s game I have two ideas for fics that you could write maybe? Feel free to completely ignore this but I’d die if you wrote a Stones/Walker from the perspective of losing the game hurt comfort sort of thing and another that’s Dele/Dier celebrating the win?! 💙

It rises up in him like a storm. Thunder rattles through his brain while spikes of white hot, searing pain shoot through his chest like lightning. Kyle knows this place, this is The Etihad, this is  _home_ , but today he feels lost.

Flashes of pale blue sweep by in his peripheral vision as he stumbles back to the dressing room. The corridors lined with photographs of better men, bigger achievements. City’s success laid out all around him, and his own failure buried deep inside. He puts one foot in front of the other until he reaches the door. It’s all he can do to keep himself upright.

John is waiting for him inside. He makes a bee line straight for Kyle and throws his arms around Kyle’s neck. Kyle stiffens, cold and unfeeling. He brings a hand to John’s back because that’s what his brain tells him he should do. Some semblance of sympathy, maybe. He pats John on the back weakly.

“Walks…” John begins, but the rest of his words get tangled in his mouth. He can’t spit it out, whatever it is that he wants to say. Kyle watches him until John shakes his head and his gaze drops to the floor.

“We’re out,” Kyle says matter-of-factly. It stings, but it’s the truth. He keeps reminding himself that they’re still set for the treble. It will be a record-breaking year for City if they do - with or without the Champions League.  _We’re still champions_ , he tells himself.  _We’re still worth something._

John nods again. He inhales shakily. “Next year,” he mumbles, but Kyle doesn’t care about next year. He cares about right now, he cares about Saturday, he cares about lifting the Premier League trophy and the FA Cup and he cares about proving he’s still worth his salt.

He knows John won’t understand, though. He knows John will linger over this, wallow in it. He’ll hate himself, and Pep, for not playing. He’ll watch the match back, scream at every decision, criticise every wrong move. He’ll keep looking back instead of forwards. What they could have been instead of what they are.

Kyle shakes his head, forcing a sad smile even though he feels the weight of the world on his shoulders. “John,” he says softly. “ _This_  year.”

With that, he presses a kiss to the corner of John’s mouth. The rest of the team are filtering in around them, turning a blind eye like usual. They blur into the background, and for a second Kyle can kid himself that they’re not there. It’s just him and John, up against the world, like usual.

The show must go on.

–

It rises up in him like a storm. Adrenaline courses through his veins, alighting his entire body and sending him into overdrive. It feels like electricity, raw and powerful and unstoppable. He’s surrounded by a sea of blue in an unfamiliar territory, but he’s conquered it. It’s theirs.  _They’ve won._

Dele stumbles giddily towards the visitor’s dressing room at The Etihad. He’s got Jan to his right, his arm slung around Dele’s shoulders, and he’s got Coco on his left, ruffling Dele’s hair and clumsily singing When The Spurs Go Marching In. They move as a group through the corridor, everyone connected by a hand or an arm. It’s all baby blue on the outside, on the surface, but on the inside, where it matters, it’s lilywhite.

Eric is waiting for him inside in the dressing room. He pushes through the crowd, grins at the cheers and slaps a high five with Paulo, then he grabs Dele and throws his arms around his neck. Dele holds him as tight as he can, suddenly unable to contain the choked sob that bubbles up inside of him and spills out onto Eric’s neck.

“Dele…” Eric begins. He pulls back, holding Dele’s face in his hands. He’s grinning, laughing, beaming. But Dele shakes his head, still unable to believe any of this is real. He laughs through his choked tears and brings a hand to Eric’s wrist, feeling the pulse hammering just beneath the surface.  

“We did it,” Dele manages, his voice strained and broken. For the first time since the final whistle went, he’s feeling  _everything_. The euphoria has made way for the gut-wrenching emotion of it all. They’re through to the semi-finals of the Champions League, for the first time in over 50 years.

Eric nods, his own eyes filling with tears as he beams at Dele. “We did it,” he repeats. He pulls Dele back into his arms and Dele clings to his coat, still shaking. He can’t believe it.  _He can’t believe it_. He closes his eyes and lets the tears fall.

He wishes Eric had been there on the pitch with him. His best friend in the whole world, who he’s shared most of his footballing career with. All the highs and the lows, experienced together, hand-in-hand. From Eric’s opening goal at the Euros to Dele’s first World Cup goal to the famous penalty shootout. They did all of it together.

“I wish…” Dele trails off, burying his face in Eric’s neck. He inhales the familiar scent, reminding himself that it doesn’t matter that Eric wasn’t physically on the pitch, because he was still  _there_.

“I wish I was too,” Eric says softly. He peels himself from Dele and Dele lifts his gaze to Eric’s, stares into the blue eyes he’s become so accustomed to. His fingertips flutter at Eric’s wrist again. He can feel the pulse in Eric and the pulse in his own fingertips aligning. He holds Eric’s wrist until it feels like they’re synced - two hearts beating as one.

Dele leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of Eric’s mouth. The rest of the team are celebrating around them, too caught up in dancing and screaming to notice Dele’s lips moving against Eric’s. And if anyone does notice, they don’t care enough to say anything. They’re through to the semi-finals of the Champions League.

And now the show must go on.


End file.
